


Untethered

by AShortWalkToDelinquency



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Extortion, Father/Son Incest, Hand Jobs, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Martin Whitly Being an Asshole, Rape/Non-con Elements, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29132334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AShortWalkToDelinquency/pseuds/AShortWalkToDelinquency
Summary: The problem, if Malcolm's honest with himself, is that he feels more fear than love when he comes to visit Martin, and fear, more than anything else, has a tendency to disorient him. He's painfully aware that he's never at his best during these visits, that he leaves himself open to Martin's manipulations far more than he should. Every time he visits, he exposes the chinks in his armour, and Martin never fails to notice each and every one of them.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 8
Kudos: 62





	Untethered

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written as my Malcolm/Martin entry for the 12 days of XXXmas, but it didn't quite fit the feel I wanted. With a little encouragement, I decided to finished it up and post it anyways.
> 
> Please head the tags.

"Come closer, my boy," Martin grins, his chair leisurely swaying side to side in the column of sunlight falling cheerfully into the cell from the raised windows behind him. 

Mr. David holds the door open for Malcolm, gaze cast down to the ground, studiously avoiding eye contact with Malcolm as he enters the secure room. In any other situation, Malcolm would've read the avoidance as the red flag that it is, but he never can seem to find his footing when visiting his father, feeling off-kilter and off his game every time he steps foot in the psychiatric facility.

Distracted.

Which is why it takes longer than it should for his mind to consciously register that something is wrong.

The problem, if Malcolm's honest with himself, is that he feels more fear than love when he comes to visit Martin, and fear, more than anything else, has a tendency to disorient him. He's painfully aware that he's never at his best during these visits, that he leaves himself open to Martin's manipulations far more than he should. Every time he visits, he exposes the chinks in his armour, and Martin never fails to notice each and every one of them.

Before Mr. David even closes the door behind him, sealing him in, Malcolm starts to wonder if somehow, in some way, today will be the day that his father exploits every single one of those weaknesses. 

The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand up as Martin's gaze rakes over him, head to toe, cold and calculating, as he walks into the cell. It's nothing new — Martin has a tendency to observe everyone who crosses his path like that, like he's appraising their worth as his next victim, imagining how he could peel back their flesh and see into their most intimate parts — but as Malcolm steps to his left, clearing the doorway, he feels as though there's something more… _predatory_...about it than usual.

"I think I'm good here, thanks." Malcolm brushes off the offer with an indifferent wave of his left hand, using the movement to direct Martin's attention away from his right, which is beginning to tremor uncontrollably. 

His instincts are telling him to run, warning him of approaching danger, but Malcolm doesn't have a choice. Either he sits through this visit or Martin tells the authorities an alternate version of what happened the night he was stabbed. 

Twice every ten days. That was what Malcolm agreed to. And that's what he'll do to protect his mother from facing prison time for a crime _he_ committed.

So he leans back against the window next to the door and does his level best not to look as terrified as he suddenly feels.

"Oh, come now, my boy," Martin tuts, disappointment creasing the corners of his eyes and lips. He temples his fingers over his stomach and leans back in his chair, a king on his throne.

Martin is _always_ sure of himself, narcissistic and egotistical to the extreme, but the fact that he seems downright cocky as the door closes behind Malcolm with a resounding _thud_ , has Malcolm rethinking the deal he made with this particular devil.

"Now, Malcolm, what harm could possibly come from moving just a teensy bit farther in?" Martin asks, eyes wide and pure, looking the perfect picture of innocence. The epitome of harmless.

It's almost a form of aggressive mimicry, Malcolm thinks. Sharing similar signals with his prey, convincing them he's just like them. Human. Making sure they don't realize he's truly a blood-thirsty monster until it's far, far too late for them to do anything to protect themselves. 

Malcolm's always been fascinated by his father's ability to feign emotions he's incapable of feeling, and strangely, he's never felt threatened by it before. But, he thinks as he watches Martin casually cross his right leg over his left, his smile stretched just a little too wide, he doesn't think Martin's ever purposely turned the full force of his charms on Malcolm before.

It's disconcerting. Malcolm slowly turns his head to the hallway behind him, noticing that Mr. David is still there, standing just outside the door. But now that he's looking, Malcolm notices the strain in the man's muscles, like he's physically holding himself in place, keeping himself still when his body and mind are screaming at him to do something.

He's terrified. 

And Malcolm doesn't understand how he missed that.

When Mr. David feels Malcolm's gaze on him, his eyes flicker up, just for a moment, meeting Malcolm's with held-back tears glistening and threatening to spill over. He mouths a silent _I'm sorry_ before his gaze flickers behind Malcolm and then drops back to the floor.

For a fraction of a second, Malcolm expects Martin to be standing behind him when he turns back around. A voice in his mind — one that sounds so much like Martin that it makes his body jerk — whispers _You can't leave. I won't let you go_. It's his nightmare come true. His stomach swoops, the world dropping out beneath him as he closes his eyes and tries to suck in a breath — a futile effort when his lungs have forgotten how to work — preparing for the worst as he turns back to face his father.

The relief is so overwhelming when he finds Martin sitting in his chair, completely unmoved from a moment ago, that he thinks his legs might just buckle and send him sliding to the concrete floor below.

"You're looking a little peaky, Malcolm," Martin says, a small 'v' appearing between his eyebrows in an imitation of concern. "Perhaps you should take a seat."

"I'm fine," Malcolm insists, impressed with just how level his voice sounds considering his heart is jackhammering against his ribs.

A flash of annoyance distorts Martin's features before he speaks through gritted teeth. "Must you disobey me at every turn? I am still your father Malcolm, and father knows best."

Malcolm just stares at the man from his stiff-backed perch against the door frame. "Our agreement was for me to visit you more often, not for me to cater to your every whim."

This time it's Martin's turn to close his eyes and inhale deeply, clearly trying to keep himself from snapping at Malcolm. When he reopens his eyes, there's a fire inside that has Malcolm attempting to take a step back, only to be stopped by the protective glass against his back.

"I think it's time we renegotiated the terms of that agreement," Martin says quietly, the innocuous words weighted by an intensity that leaves Malcolm's skin crawling. "I think it's high time that you were put in your place, my boy."

"What do you—" Malcolm's half-formed question is cut off as Martin suddenly uncrosses his legs and pushes to his feet.

The fear is instantaneous and overwhelming as he finally pieces together all the fragments of _dangerdangerdanger_ that had been trying to catch his attention since he walked through the door.

His father isn't handcuffed. 

He isn't even secured to the wall by the cable that keeps him firmly behind the red line.

He's free to move about the cell as he pleases. And Malcolm is locked inside with him.

"How?" It's hardly a whisper, the single word broken in half as it catches in his throat and refuses to come out any further.

"It's amazing what a man can accomplish with just a few phone calls and some well placed friends," Martin says, spreading his arms wide and puffing his chest out in an exaggerated stretch. Malcolm knows the action is designed solely to display his freedom, made entirely for his benefit. Even still it makes Malcolm flinch away from the unimpeded movement.

Malcolm's hand slides along the glass behind him, searching for the handle of the door, despite knowing, logically, that he's going to find it locked.

It doesn't stop him from grabbing hold and yanking, spinning to face the door, banging on the window as he screams for Mr. David to release him.

"Let me out! Please!" he shouts around the panic that's bubbling and building inside of him. Mr. David winces at his plea but remains firmly rooted to the spot, eyes glued on the wall in front of him.

"I'm sorry, my boy, but Mr. David is otherwise occupied right now. He won't be able to help you, I'm afraid," Martin's voice comes from far, far closer than Malcolm is comfortable with and his hand grips the handle of the door so tight that he's sure he's going to rip it clear off the solid metal it's been so firmly welded to. "Mr. David is learning a lesson of his own today. Don't worry, though, he'll be nearby the whole time. Won't you, Mr. David?"

Malcolm is frozen in place, trapped in his very worst nightmare, as Martin's hands press against the door on either side of him. He brackets Malcolm between outstretched arms, the warmth of his body so close behind Malcolm that he can feel it through the layers of their clothes.

"Yes, Doctor Whitly," Mr. David forces out, though even Malcolm, in the throes of the worst panic he's ever felt, can hear the hatred in his words. 

"This isn't happening. This isn't real," Malcolm whispers, closing his eyes and willing himself to wake up, his breath coming faster and faster, the heat of it bouncing off the glass, brushing over his skin in a way that shakes him from head to toe. 

His dreams are never quite so detailed.

"Oh, Malcolm, I hate to be the bearer of bad news," Martin whispers into Malcolm's ear, "but what's happening right now is very, very real."

It's the feel of Martin's whiskers rasping against the shell of his ear that finally breaks the paralysis of his terror. He releases the door and attempts to spin, to face his father and fight for his life, but Martin is two steps ahead. Powerful arms wrap around Malcolm before he has a chance to turn and face the monster that's been haunting him for over twenty years.

"Shit, no, stop!" Malcolm cries out. It's too close to his fractured memories from all those years ago, Martin pulling him away from the girl in the box, crushing his body as he pressed a damp cloth to his face. There's no chloroform this time, but everything else is similar enough that his memories begin to fuse with his current surroundings and before he knows it, he's hyperventilating, gasping for air that refuses to fill his lungs.

"Shh, it's okay, Malcolm," Martin coos as he pulls him deeper into the cell, far past the red line that was supposed to keep him safe.

Malcolm kicks out, struggles against the vice-like hold, but he can't find freedom now anymore than he could when he was ten.

"Please," Malcolm wheezes. His head is spinning as the oxygen in his blood depletes, but he refuses to give in, terrified that he'll never wake up if he does.

He forces himself to still, to focus on his breathing and calm his racing heart. He ignores the feeling of Martin's body pressed warm against his back as Martin lowers them into his chair, concentrating instead on filling his lungs with air. And then, rather than focusing on the way Martin has grown hard from Malcolm's struggles, his erection poking uncomfortably into Malcolm's ass as he pulls him into his lap, he concentrates on a single exhale.

"That's my boy," Martin hums against Malcolm's neck, his grip unrelenting. "Let dad take care of you."

When Malcolm doesn't answer — just continues to center his thoughts and attempt to gain control his body — Martin takes it as a sign the Malcolm is listening and begins to explain _exactly_ what is about to happen.

"Oh Malcolm, I'm sorry this is so difficult for you, but it really is time for me to take control of this relationship again," Martin murmurs against Malcolm's neck, so close that his lips brush lightly over the sensitive skin with every word. "Ten years you stayed away. And once you came back, it was always on your terms. I think it's my turn to steer the ship for a while, don't you?"

"Let. Me. Go," Malcolm bites out as the terror begins to fade, just a little, replaced by a burning anger that slowly filters in. It takes him a moment to remember that he's not a child anymore. That Martin can no longer control him like he used to, with false love, strong arms, and chloroform.

But when Malcolm tries to pull away, Martin's grip becomes harsh, oppressive, squeezing around him so tightly that he can't breathe and his ribs scream and his arms throb where they're crushed against his sides.

"Malcolm, I need you to listen very carefully, because unfortunately, we don't have all night," Martin grunts as he holds Malcolm still, irritation seeping into the congenial tone he'd been maintaining. "You're going to stop struggling now, because your mother's future depends on it."

As much as Malcolm wants to get the hell out of there, he stills at the implied threat, needing to know exactly what Martin is planning before he can make any plans of his own.

"Good." The quirk of Martin's lips is unmistakable against Malcolm's skin, and bile begins to rise in Malcolm's throat as he realizes just how much his father is enjoying this. "Now we're getting somewhere. You see, I saw an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. You need to learn that, even in here, my word is law. And Mr. David...well, he needs to learn just how much power he truly wields in his role as my guard."

Malcolm isn't sure what Mr. David has to do with any of this, and _definitely_ doesn't understand why he's merely standing outside the door, doing nothing.

Martin chuckles and adds, "I'll give you a hint. It's less than he'd originally thought."

Malcolm knows if he stays quiet, Martin will fill the silence with more explanations than if he comes right out and asks what the hell is going on, because Martin has always had a flair for obfuscating his answers to direct questions posed to him. Malcolm learned long ago that giving his father space to puff his chest and fluff his feathers is the best way to draw information from him.

So he maintains his silence and fights the urge to run, especially when Martin starts rocking his hips ever so slightly — probably unconsciously, Malcolm realizes — beneath him, grinding his erection against Malcolm's body as they sit in near silence.

Martin, predictably, breaks the silence.

He always did love the sound of his own voice.

"You're beautiful like this, my boy," Martin murmurs, trailing his lips over Malcolm's throat, pausing at his pulse point and moaning quietly as he feels just how fast Malcolm's heart is racing. "So good for me. So subservient."

"What do you want?" Malcolm's resolve to stay silent is shattered by the overly-intimate touch of his father.

"Right now?" Martin asks, not waiting for an answer before he slides one arm down Malcolm's torso and cups his hand over the front of his trousers, drawing a startled gasp from Malcolm. "Right now, I want you to ride me, son. I want to watch you bouncing in my lap as my cock sinks into you over and over again."

Malcolm begins his struggle anew but is halted quickly as Martin presses down, _hard_ , on Malcolm's groin, sparking a thousand white lights behind his eyes and stealing the breath right from his lungs.

"I wasn't finished yet, Malcolm." Martin's grip eases as Malcolm freezes in place. "See, this is why a boy needs his father growing up. Your mother clearly didn't teach you to respect your elders."

As Martin's grip eases and Malcolm regains the ability to form a coherent thought, he begins to comprehend exactly what Martin is asking of him. And he still can't quite believe him.

"Jesus Christ. You're my father." Malcolm's voice shakes harder than his hand. "You can't be serious."

"Oh I'm quite serious, Malcolm. I would never joke about something so momentous." 

Now that Malcolm is no longer fighting against his father's hold, Martin's touch turns gentle. He's still holding Malcolm tight against his chest with one arm, but his free hand begins stroking slowly, rubbing away the ache and making Malcolm's stomach churn.

"Now. I don't want any more of this rebellious nonsense. Is that understood?" Martin's tone is the same that he used when Malcolm had stolen away Ainsley's favourite toy as a boy. Like he expects better from his son. Like he's disappointed. "Unless, of course, you want your mother spending the next twenty years of her life in the hoosegow. Because I'm only going to warn you once, Malcolm. I expect your full cooperation or I'll be making a well placed phone call before you've stepped foot from this building, and your mother will be in lock-up before her freshly manicured nails have a chance to dry. And you know how Jess despises a botched manicure."

And even like this, with his back to Martin's chest and no way to look him in the eye, Malcolm _knows_ that he's telling the truth. That if Malcolm doesn't acquiesce to Martin's every command, his mother will pay the price.

And he _can't_ let that happen.

"Why are you doing this?" Malcolm whispers, hardly able to force the words out as his throat closes up around them. He can't believe this is happening. That Martin is doing this. He's always known his father was a monster, but he never thought he'd stoop so low.

"Because, Malcolm," Martin says as he works the button of Malcolm's trousers one handed before moving to tug at his zipper. "It's time you remember that you belong to me. That you're a part of me. And that I'm inside of you."

Martin slips his hand into Malcolm's boxer briefs, wrapping his fist around Malcolm's flaccid cock and stroking slowly. 

"Fuck. Stop," Malcolm pleads, but Martin merely picks up the pace, gripping him with a firm but surprisingly gentle touch. "Doctor Whitly, please don't do this."

"Oh, I'm not going to do much of anything, my boy. You'll be doing most of the work, I'm afraid. I'm just giving you a hand to get things started." Martin chuckles quietly at his own joke, the motion passing through Martin's body into Malcolm's where they're pressed together.

"We can—" Malcolm pauses as he feels his cock begin to grow hard under his father's ministrations, and can't help but squirm away from the touch, despising his body for reacting. All that seems to do is cause Martin's erection to throb against him. "We can come up with something else. I can visit weekly. Twice a week, even."

"Oh, my boy, that would be lovely," Martin grins and starts to kiss along Malcolm's neck, moving to his ear to pull the lobe between his teeth, biting playfully. His hand never falters in its steady rhythm. "I know you must have missed dear old dad lately, what with my extended hospital stay. I'd be pleased as punch if you came to visit more."

Malcolm's heart flutters in his chest, thinking that Martin is agreeing to new terms. That they can put an end to this before it goes any further.

"Of course, that won't change what's about to happen here. But it would be so nice to see you more often."

The hot tingle behind his eyes is entirely expected, but Malcolm does his level best to hold back the tears, blinking rapidly and looking towards the ceiling in an effort to stop the flow before it starts.

He fails almost immediately.

"Malcolm, sweetheart, there's no need to cry," Martin coos, sliding his hand down to Malcolm's sack, tugging tenderly as he kisses the side of Malcolm's neck and face over and over again. "I don't want to hurt you. That's why you're going to set the pace. You can take as much time as you need.

Malcolm realizes quickly that bargaining won't work. That he can't _compromise_ his way out of this. 

So he changes tack.

"No one will believe you," Malcolm tries instead. "If you say mom did it out of spite, that she wasn't being coerced. It's our word against yours; high society against a convicted serial killer. And even if they press charges, she has the best lawyers money can buy on retainer."

"Mmmm," Martin hums from deep in his chest. "Not _all_ the best lawyers. You remember Everett Stirling, don't you? I've been speaking with him since I was released from the hospital. That man certainly has some pull. 'Political clout' were his words. He knows the right strings to pull to arrange a specific outcome. This room is proof of that."

Malcolm's eyebrows draw in as he considers this information. He'd always wondered how his father managed such an easy sentence at Claremont rather than being thrown into Rikers, always wondered how he managed to garner so many privileges. He knows many of Martin's patients are powerful individuals, but what if that's not all? What if Martin truly has connections to people who could sway the justice system, to ensure that Jessica is convicted for a crime she didn't commit.

He refuses to find out.

Martin smiles against his skin as Malcolm's chin drops to his chest, defeat slumping his frame even as one part of his body becomes firmer and firmer as Martin continues to jack him off.

"There we go," Martin sighs, easing the tight hold he has around Malcolm's body. "This will go much easier if you stop fighting."

Malcolm knows he could break his father's hold now. Could pull away from his lap and get himself in a position to fight him off should he try to trap him again. But what would that accomplish? Martin holds all of the cards right now, and it's Malcolm's own damn fault that they're in this situation to begin with. He never should've let Jessica take the fall for what _he_ did.

And maybe this is punishment for letting the blame fall to her in the first place. 

Maybe this is karma for impaling his father.

Maybe he deserves this.

"That's it, my boy. Relax," Martin says, dipping his hand lower to finger at Malcolm perineum. "I'd very much like for you to enjoy this, at least a little. Now. I'm going to let you stand up. No funny business, alright? Just take your pants off like a good little boy."

Martin pulls back both of his hands but Malcolm doesn't move. He's losing himself to a spiral of guilt and self-hatred and it takes a nudge from Martin to get him moving. Even then, his motions are stiff and unnatural, like he's not in full control of his body. Like he's not really _there_ at all.

"Beautiful," Martin whispers as Malcolm pulls off his trousers and underwear, leaving him fully clothed from the waist up, and in just socks and shoes below. "You are a perfect specimen, Malcolm. _My_ perfect specimen."

Martin shifts in his chair, just enough to pull the waistband of his pants down, tucking it beneath his balls as his erection springs free, red and weeping and _big_.

"Now. There's some lube in my desk drawer. Be a dear and go fetch it, hmm." Martin leans back in his chair and starts working his shaft at a lazy pace. Malcolm moves on auto-pilot, pulling the small bottle from the drawer and bringing it back to Martin without a word. "Good boy."

While Malcolm's gaze is locked on his father's throbbing dick as he slicks it up, his mind is caught in a whirlwind of despair and hopelessness, and he's only partially aware of his surroundings. 

"Turn around son," Martin says after a moment, gesturing for Malcolm to face the door with a twirl of his hand. Malcolm blinks vacantly a few times and then complies. "Good. Now bend over. Hands on your knees."

The touch of slick fingers at his entrance is both unsurprising and painfully shocking, but Martin wraps a firm hand over his hip to keep him in place as he massages the furl of muscle until one finger slides in easily.

The second and third fingers sting, but Martin is quick and thorough, stretching Malcolm open with a practiced hand. Malcolm honestly isn't sure if it's been minutes or hours when Martin slides his fingers out of Malcolm's body and leans back in his chair once again.

"The stage is all yours, my boy," Martin grins, his cock leaking precum all over his white uniform pants.

Malcolm straightens up but hesitates, his body locked in place as he stands there, half-naked and fully exposed. He can't quite get his mind to focus, to stay present (which, he supposes, is a blessing) but it's leaving him clumsy and vacant and unable to do as he's told. It feels like he's being torn in half as the voices in his head scream at him to run and whisper that all of this is his own fault, that he needs to do this for his mother, that he's earned whatever is done to him.

"Come here, Malcolm," Martin says gently and Malcolm can't help the tear that escapes at the softness of the words. He thinks this might be easier if Martin just held him down and fucked into him, took away his ability to make it stop. Instead, he's forcing Malcolm to be complicit in what's about to happen. "Everything is going to be alright. Don't worry."

Martin reaches out and wraps a hand around Malcolm's, tugging him gently towards him and then, surprisingly, maneuvers him to face the door once again

"Come sit on dad's lap, sweetheart," Martin says as he shuffles forward in the chair so he's perched near the edge of the seat.

He doesn't even feel it as he lowers himself, sitting on Martin's lap, just as he was told. He _does_ feel Martin's erection resting hard and unforgiving against his tailbone.

Martin helps to shift his body, splaying Malcolm's legs wide on either side of Martin's, exposing him completely to the windows of the cell. Martin reaches between his legs as soon as he's settled, running gentle fingers along the vein that lines Malcolm's cock, kissing his neck once more before turning his attention to Mr. David, who is studiously avoiding looking into the cell.

"Mr. David," Martin calls, raising his voice to be heard through the thick glass dividing them. "There's about to be quite the show in here. It would be a shame for you to miss it."

As harmless as the words sound, Malcolm can hear the threat behind them. _Watch, or else_. Mr. David obviously hears the implied threat as well, because he forces himself to turn towards the window, to look at the two men inside.

And Malcolm can see the hatred and the fear in Mr. David's eyes as he locks his eyes on them and watches Martin fondle Malcolm's cock. He can tell just how badly Mr. David wants to put an end to this. But he just stands there, stiff and immobile, looking like there might as well be a gun to his head.

"Mmm. It's so hard to find good help these days, but I really think Mr. David and I have developed a lifelong friendship here," Martin whispers into Malcolm's ear while he slips his free hand beneath Malcolm's shirt to rest flat on his belly. It feels somehow more intimate than the way he's petting Malcolm's cock, and a shiver rocks Malcolm's body, a frisson of electricity that shoots through every nerve in his body. "Oh. So responsive. This is going to be better than I thought. Unfortunately, as much as I'd like to draw this out, we don't have all day. Time to move things along."

Martin taps Malcolm's hip, signalling for him to lift up a little. And Malcolm knows exactly what happens next.

"That's it. Now reach between your legs and take hold of my cock." Martin encourages as Malcolm raises himself from Martin's lap. "Mmmm. Good. Now line yourself up. That's it, you're doing so well, my boy." Martin groans as the head of his cock brushes against Malcolm's rim. "Now sit on it."

Malcolm can't breathe, can't see through the tears that are welling in his eyes. He lowers himself slowly, feeling every single inch of Martin as he stretches him open and invades his body.

"Ahhhh, you're even tighter than I expected," Martin moans as Malcolm fully seats himself on his cock. "So perfect for me."

It burns. Not just where he's pinned on Martin's dick — though there's an ache there, too — but in his lungs, as they refuse to expand, to allow oxygen to pass into his body. 

"Breathe, Malcolm," Martin murmurs. He leans back in the chair and tugs Malcolm along with him so they're half-reclined, back to front. Martin's slow, deep breaths against Malcolm's back cause him to rise and fall on his father's chest in an undulating wave, and he unconsciously begins to breathe once again, slowly but surely matching his father's effortless respiration.

"That's it, nice and easy." Martin rests one hand over Malcolm's heart, grounding him somehow, regardless of the fact that he's the source of all of his current pain and anxiety. "Breathe in. And out. Good."

As Malcolm's heart rate begins to slow, as his breathing loses the ragged gasping sound that accompanies every inhale, Martin's free hand begins to roam over Malcolm's body, stroking up his inner thigh and then trailing along his iliac crest. He passes within inches of Malcolm's cock but doesn't make a move to touch it. It doesn't matter, though, because it still gives a twitch as his father's fingers explore his body.

Malcolm has never despised his treacherous body more.

And the harder he gets, the more his breathing turns to quick little gasps, the more that Martin begins to shift beneath him, rolling his hips in almost non-existent circles. There's hardly any friction, but it's enough to draw a small moan from Malcolm's lungs as his father's cock incidentally brushes over his prostate.

"There you go," Martin encourages. He slides his hand up to fist in Malcolm's hair and uses the grip to angle his face towards Martin. He doesn't give Malcolm time to anticipate the move, just crashes their lips together in a forceful kiss, his tongue sliding deep into Malcolm's mouth. 

Malcolm would be willing to wager the snap of Martin's hips is entirely involuntary, that he fully meant for Malcolm to make the first move, but the motion punches the air from Malcolm's lungs and Martin swallows down the needy moan that surfaces against Malcolm's will.

Surprisingly, it's Martin that pulls back, dropping his face into the hollow of Malcolm's neck and taking a deep breath, sucking in Malcolm's scent, before he speaks again.

"Alright Malcolm. It's time for you to get a move on. Put on a good show for Mr. David, hmm?"

A gentle nudge forward and Malcolm is suddenly sitting up straight, the change in position making his cock throb and jump. 

But he can't seem to make himself move.

The problem is, as soon as begins to ride Martin the way he's expected to, he knows it will change the way he views this entire situation. As soon as he starts moving, he's going to feel like a willing participant. Because Martin has dropped his hands to the arms of the chair and Malcolm could absolutely just stand up and walk away. He could end this right now.

But he won't.

Which, he supposes, makes him implicitly involved anyways. So he forces the muscles in his thighs to contract and he pulls himself a few inches off of Martin's raging erection before he lowers himself back down, his father's cock stroking all the right places inside of him. 

All the wrong places inside of him.

Now that he's committed, he doesn't give Martin a chance to encourage him any further. If it's possible to get through the rest of this nightmare without having to listen to another word from his father, he intends to take it. Beyond that, he's beginning to recognize that the only control he has in this situation is _how_ he does this. And the faster he gets Martin off, the faster it will all be over.

Without any warning, he starts to ride Martin in earnest, bouncing in his lap just like his father had demanded. His movements are still clumsy— his body still doesn't feel quite like his own — but friction is friction and, if Martin's groans are anything to go by, he's doing a more than adequate job.

It's only a matter of minutes before Martin's hands shift to Malcolm's hips, not forcing his movements, just keeping him steady, keeping them connected at yet another point of their bodies, as if the fact that Martin is _inside_ of Malcolm isn't quite enough.

"Ungh. Oh, my boy. My son," Martin pants as Malcolm takes him in over and over and over again. "So good for me. I love you, my boy"

Malcolm's stomach twists at the words, the meager contents of his last meal threatening to rebel. "Don't." Malcolm pours all the vitriol he can behind the single word. _Love_ doesn't factor into this equation. Despite all the evidence prior to this, Malcolm only now comprehends that Martin never did love him the way he'd always hoped, that he'd been clinging to delusions. "You don't love me, Doctor Whitly," Malcolm pants, his breath coming out in short gasps, winded from exertion as he continues to impale himself again and again on his father's cock. The muscles in his thighs begin to ache and tremble, but he refuses to slow his pace. "You're incapable of love. This is about power. Nothing more, nothing less."

Strong arms wrap around Malcolm once again, jerking him back against his father's chest, halting his near-frantic movements. He gasps in surprise, but that gasp becomes a moan as Martin grabs hold of his cock once again, stroking hard and fast, matching Malcolm's pace from only seconds ago.

"I do love you, Malcolm. You're the only thing I've _ever_ loved." Martin's words are laced with a vehemence that startles Malcolm. He's almost certain that Martin actually believes it to be true.

Malcolm takes a gamble, knowing that provoking his father right now may not be in his best interest, but opting for the truth nonetheless.

"If you loved me, you wouldn't be raping me."

Martin's hand stutters to a halt and Malcolm thinks that, maybe, he's gotten through. That, maybe, Martin will put an end to this.

Instead, Martin begins again, slower this time. Gentle.

"I'm merely making us one Malcolm. I'm a part of you. Surely you've realized this by now?" Martin asks. He starts twisting his wrist on each stroke just as he reaches the head of Malcolm's cock, a motion that makes Malcolm whimper as pleasure jolts through his body despite his mind remaining firmly opposed to what he's being forced to endure. "I've always been inside of you Malcolm. We're merely cementing that bond. The power belongs to us both."

Malcolm rolls his eyes, knowing he'll never change his father's mind, never convince him of what this is. The man is a self-aggrandizing narcissist. In his mind, what he's doing couldn't possibly be wrong, because Malcolm is merely an extension of himself.

"And what about Mr. David?" Malcolm asks as his eyelids flutter shut, his cock throbbing in Martin's hand.

"Oh. Yes, about that. Apparently Mr. David received a package in the mail this morning. Surveillance photos of his wife and daughter with a bullseye on each picture. A shame really, that someone would threaten his family like that," Martin says, a cruel smile tugging at his lips as he looks up at the man on the other side of the glass. "Anyhow, he's feeling a little vulnerable right now."

Martin's pace picks up as he watches the fury and terror flash over Mr. David's features, his hips bucking up to fuck into Malcolm's body, quick, shallow thrusts that threaten to send Malcolm over the edge.

He doesn't want that. Doesn't want to get off as his father rapes him. But his body clearly has other ideas.

"But Mr. David doesn't matter, Malcolm. He's learning his place, but this is about us." Martin punctuates the last word with a fierce thrust and a ruthless jerking of his cock. Malcolm comes with a silent scream, spurting over his father's hand. "Oh yes. Oh, my boy. That's beautiful."

When Malcolm finishes, when he's hissing at the continued touch of his father's hand over his cock, Martin lays his softening cock tenderly on his thigh and then grabs hold of Malcolm's hips. There's no guiding touch this time. No gentle support. This time, Martin's grip is crushing as he takes hold and begins to thrust up, _hard_ , into Malcolm. Hard enough that the chair starts to jerk back, inching its way to the back of the room until it finally bumps against the wall as Martin chases his release.

And Malcolm can only grit his teeth and let himself be used.

His hands fist around the arms of the chair, keeping hold against the brutal thrusts until Martin finally shouts his release, filling Malcolm with his hot spend, rope after rope of creamy come coating his insides.

Malcolm leans forward just in time to vomit on the floor in front of him, watching through blurry eyes as his sick splatters over Martin's shoes. 

Still pinned on Martin's softening cock, Malcolm can only heave as bile continues to flood his mouth and spill to the floor. At yet another stomach convulsion, Martin's hand slips under the back of his shirt, rubbing soothing circles on his back as the last of Malcolm's stomach's contents are spilled on the ground. And God, does Malcolm hate himself for feeling a degree of comfort at the touch.

"Let's get you cleaned up, sweetheart," Martin says softly, helping Malcolm push to his feet, supporting him with a firm but kind grip when his knees shake and threaten to buckle.

As soon as Malcolm finds his balance, though, he jerks away from Martin's touch, silently moving towards his pants and boxer briefs where they're discarded on the floor. He can feel Martin's come dripping from his puffy and abused hole, but he doesn't care. 

He needs to get out.

"Malcolm, we should talk about this," Martin says softly.

"There's nothing to say," Malcolm bites out. His stomach is still churning, the taste of bile in his mouth threatening to make him heave again. "Just leave mother alone."

"Of course. Of course. No need to worry about that," Martin coos as he makes his way to Malcolm's side, tucked away and looking perfectly at ease. Like he didn't just rape his son.

Malcolm damn near runs to the door, still working the fly of his pants. Mr. David is opening the door before Malcolm has a chance to knock.

"I'm so sorry, Malcolm," Mr. David whispers as the door swings open, his eyes cast down to Malcolm's chest, like he can't quite bring himself to look him in the eye.

Malcolm can't formulate a response. Not now. Instead he pushes past him and rushes towards the second set of locked doors, his heart kicking into overdrive as he imagines his father — untethered and completely in charge — following behind him, following him home.

He can't turn around. Can't bear the thought that Martin might not be in his cell. So he waits. His breath coming too fast, his hand shaking so hard he can't even manage to shove it in his pocket to conceal the tremor, he waits for the door to be opened, to free him from this hellscape.

Martin's voice floats to him from down the hall and Malcolm's heart stutters to a stop, missing enough beats to leave him dizzy before it hammers harder than ever before. He doesn't need to look to feel his father's gaze boring into him.

"See you in five days, my boy."


End file.
